


Features of Interest

by misfit_academy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misfit_academy/pseuds/misfit_academy
Summary: John Watson returned home from the military as a broken man. After years of torment and attempting to take his life, he was admitted into a mental institution where he wasted away slowly day after day. Until he met Sherlock Holmes, a paranoid schizophrenic who just so happens to be the most brilliant man that John has ever met. They both have dark pasts, and Sherlock's present isn't much better, though he tries his best to hide it from the rest of the world. Will John be able to save Sherlock and himself in the process?





	1. So Long

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on any cite, so feedback would be appreciated! Thank you!

God, this place is awful.

I look up and run my hands through my hair, cringing at the greasy feeling on my fingers. I try to recall the last time I showered, but I quickly give up, sighing and looking around at the poor bastards who have been forced to share this hell hole with me. The people who have been labeled “crazy” all their lives. The people who have been told that being shoved in here will fix them.

Right.

No one’s getting better here. This place seems to suck the life out of everyone in it. All they do is wander around in a daze, lost in their own little worlds. I wonder if they’re any better than the real world.

Probably.

I’m not gonna say I don’t belong here. I don’t have the energy to lie to myself or anyone else at this point. I deserve to be here. Probably more than half of these people. Then again, that could just be the depression talking. I’ve been told it can cause destructive thoughts.

God, what are you even supposed to do in this place? Wait around staring at the wall until you go even crazier? Watch the same rerun of looney toons for the tenth time in a row? Sounds like fun.

My eyes land on a measly shelf of books in the corner of the room. Exhaling sharply, I stand and begin to make my way towards it.

Before I can make it to the shelf, though, my body collides with something solid and suddenly I’m on the ground. I grunt softly and look up, expecting to see some poor confused soul staring down at me with empty eyes, unaware of what just happened. Instead, I am met with piercing blue eyes filled with life and watching me carefully, roaming over my body in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead feels strangely clinical, like he’s trying to catalogue every little piece of information he can find. His face is pale and angular, and he has a mop of dark hair on his head, thick strands falling into his face. He’s clutching a small stack of books to his chest in a protective fashion, like he thinks that someone might run up to him any second and steal them away. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, the thin white scrubs we’re all forced to wear contrasting uncomfortably with his lithe body and sharp features. 

He shakes his head slightly and scrunches his nose, as if reminding himself that there is a situation to handle. At the same time, I realize that I’m still sitting on the floor, staring up at him like an idiot. I find myself glad that we’re in a place where this silent staring match is the least strange thing anyone will see today, resulting in everyone largely ignoring the whole event. 

“I’m sorry.”

I shake myself out of my thoughts once more at the deep voice, focusing back on the man’s face. He has shifted the books he’s carrying into the crook of his left elbow, and his right hand is extended for me to take.

I slowly take his hand and he pulls me up like it’s nothing. He looks me over one more time, assessing my physical state. His eyes linger on the insides of my arms, and I quickly cross them over my chest. He takes the hint and lets it go, shifting the books in his arms again.

I look down at the tile floor, unsure of what to say. “I…uh…”

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

My eyes shoot up to his face, my eyebrows furrowing. “Huh?”

He raises one eyebrow, slightly amused at my cluelessness. “My name.” He smirks. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh!” I mentally smack myself for being so slow. “John Watson,” I reply. Smooth.

His smirk intensifies. “So, John Watson.” He says my name slowly, like he’s testing it out. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

My eyes go comically wide at the question. “What?”

He’s still smiling, obviously pleased with himself. “Afghanistan or Iraq, which was it?”

I’m unsure of whether I should be intrigued or oddly offended, and I consider storming off, but the part of my brain that wants desperately to know how he knows takes over, forcing me to reply. “Afghanistan. How did you-”

“The way that you hold yourself says military. Your face is slightly more tanned than the rest of your body, but there’s no tan above the wrist. So you spent a good portion of your life abroad, but not sunbathing.” He pauses, clearing his throat in what I now know to be an apologetic gesture. “You’ve got scars on your arms and wrists, the angles of which suggest that they are self-inflicted and the thicker vertical lines indicate a suicide attempt. That plus the fact that you’re here indicates that you endured something traumatic in your past. You’ve got no close friends or family, so they can’t be the cause. Posture, suntan, traumatic event in the last five years – Afghanistan or Iraq.” 

I stand there for a good while, just staring at him with my mouth open. After a few seconds I shake my head, chuckling softly. “Wow. That was…brilliant.”

His eyebrows furrow slightly, and he frowns in confusion. “Really?”

“Yes.” I uncross my arms. Seeing as he’s already figured me out, it would be pointless to feel shame around this man now. “It was incredible.”

His pale cheeks gain the slightest bit of color. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

He shrugs, casting his eyes down. “They call me crazy.”

I scoff. “Crazy? For being a proper genius?” 

“Well, they put me in here, didn’t they?”

I frown. “Why would they put you here for that?”

He clears his throat, straightening himself and turning his face into a mask of indifference. The sudden change in demeanor throws me for a loop. “Actually they uh…they put me in here because I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.”

This catches me off guard. “What?”

He sighs heavily. “Paranoid Schizophrenia. A chronic mental disorder which involves symptoms such as auditory and visual hallucinations, delusions, anxiety –”

“No, I know what it is.” I shake my head slightly. “It’s just…”

He studies me closely, a guarded look on his face. “Just what?”

My face goes red. “Well, you don’t…you don’t act like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How very eloquent of you Watson.” He glances down at the books in his arms. “Well, I should be getting back to my work. I only have so long before my next session.” He nods at me before whisking away gracefully, leaving me to wonder what work he could be referring to. “So long Watson.”

I stare after him, a small smile on my face. “So long.”


	2. Common Occurances

I stare at the ceiling of my room, my roommate’s soft snores lulling me into a sort of trance as I think about my interaction with the strange dark-haired man the previous day. 

Sherlock Holmes. The most brilliant man anyone here has ever met and he’s being forced to waste away behind padded walls, his genius going unnoticed, unappreciated. 

I hadn’t seen him today at all, but then again I did spend most of the day in the office of my psychiatrist, Irene Adler. She insists on seeing me three times a week to be sure that I’m not getting “bad” again. I can assure her that I’m not, mostly because I live in a constant state of “bad.” She could tell that something was off this time, though, as I walked into her office a little lighter than I usually do. She tried to get me to talk, but I couldn’t disclose the nature of my thoughts. I couldn’t tell her that I haven’t been able to get my mind off of a certain tall, brilliant, mysterious man who has been labeled crazy by all of his peers, and multiple professionals. Then again, I’ve been labeled the same way, so what could be the harm in getting to know him better?

The rest of the session was pretty uneventful after she gave up trying to get me to talk about my personal life. But, her prying did result in us going overtime, and by the time I stepped out of her office it was time for dinner. 

So now here I am, lying on an uncomfortable mattress and wondering how and when I’ll get to talk to the other man again. My roommate shifts in his bed and I hold my breath, but after a few seconds he goes silent again, his breathing still even. I exhale and try to return back to my thoughts, but before I can drift away again, a muffled scream rises up from another room. It’s not an uncommon occurrence in this place, but it’s still unnerving every time it happens. 

This one sounds especially pained. Whoever it is (I would guess it’s a man from the voice) sounds truly panicked, like he’s fighting desperately against someone or something. After a few seconds, footsteps emerge at the end of the hall, quickly getting closer before passing our door and fading away again. Nurses. Probably security, too. On their way to sedate and secure the poor man. I try to remind myself that it’s for the patient’s own good, but part of me still resents the fact that episodes like this are just treated like side effects of the crazy. We’re treated like animals who don’t have any clue what’s best for us. Maybe we’re crazy, but we still have brains, no matter how messed up they may be. 

After a few minutes of more screaming and crashing and what sounded like a head banging against the wall, the ward goes silent. Then the footsteps can be heard again, this time moving slower and in the opposite direction as before. I close my eyes and try to ignore what just happened. I try to forget where I am for just a moment, and after about an hour of silence, I finally drift off into a restless sleep.


	3. Soldier Friend

The next morning, I walk into the cafeteria in a daze, the measly two hours of sleep last night not doing anything for my mental state. I take my meds out of a little paper cup, and I sit down, picking at the sad breakfast in front of me. 

I look around, scanning the room for sharp eyes and a mop of dark hair, and just when I’m about to give up hope, I see him sitting in the corner, staring out at the crowd before him. Though something about him is different this time. His eyes are lacking that spark that they held on that first day, instead just glossy and unfocused. He’s just staring off into space, not really seeing anyone or anything. This makes me frown, and I look around to see if any nurses are watching me before standing and making my way toward him. 

He doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach him, which worries me deeply. I sit down in front of him, effectively blocking his view of the rest of the room, but he still doesn’t react. I exhale sharply and wave my hand in front of his face. “Sherlock?”

He slowly starts to stir, his eyes focusing on my face. He looks confused for a moment before he asks in a soft voice, “John?”

I smile at that, letting out a sigh of relief. “Hey. How have you been?”

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Don’t like small talk. Pointless.” He’s still mumbling, his words slightly slurring together, but the response draws a genuine laugh from me. 

“Okay then. No small talk.” I take a deep breath, deciding to just jump right in. “So, why are you sitting in the corner alone looking like you stepped right out of a zombie film?”

He sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. “Doctors upped my dosage. Said I needed more after last night.”

The realization dawns on me and I lean in closer to him. “So that was you last night…”

He nods weakly, eyes closed.

I decide to push my luck. “Sherlock, what happened?” He doesn’t respond. “Sherlock?”

He hums, opening his eyes and lifting his head from the wall. His eyes meet mine, and the glazed-over look makes me want to find the nurse who ordered the increase in dosage and make sure they’re never heard from again. No one with a mind like Sherlock’s should be forced into a practically drug-induced coma. 

I tell myself not to jump ahead; I don’t have all the information. But I don’t think I’ll be getting said information out of Sherlock, not while he’s like this. 

He’s still staring at me through his drug-fueled haze, and I find myself unable to look away. We stay locked in this strange staring contest until the orderlies announce that breakfast is over, effectively breaking the spell. One of the orderlies, a shorter man with dark, slicked-back hair and an unsettling smile begins walking toward us. Jim Moriarty. I haven’t seen much of him since I’ve been here, but what I have seen hasn’t given me a good feeling about the man. He reminds me of a shark; always circling the grounds, searching for someone to accost. He continues over, ignoring my threatening glare in favor of eyeing Sherlock like prey. My stare just turns more deadly when Sherlock whimpers and lowers his head as the man gets closer.

“Sherlock.” He speaks in a sing song voice, the tone strangely unsettling. His smile widens as he looms over Sherlock. “It’s time for your session with Miss Adler. What do you say you come with me?” 

I look to Sherlock, who keeps his head down, refusing to look at the man.

“Aww, come on, Sherl.” Sherlock cringes at the pet name. “You have to come with me. You know you do. Now you could leave your little soldier friend here and come willingly, or…” He leaves the rest open to interpretation, and Sherlock clearly decides that he doesn’t want whatever the second option would be, standing slowly and following behind the man. Moriarty glances back at me and flashes me a grin, like he’s won some sort of game. Though I guess in his mind he has. I glare at his back as I stand to join the rest of the patients in the common room. 

I walk into the room and quickly find a quiet corner to sulk in. I sit in an old plastic chair and think about the whole situation. About Sherlock and his outburst. About Moriarty and his predatory smiles. About all of the possible threats that could have been encompassed in that one little sentence. I have no idea what that little “or” meant, but it was clear that Sherlock did. Had something happened before? Had Moriarty done something to Sherlock? The thought almost drives me out of my seat and into the hall to find the man and threaten him into a confession. But that’s the soldier in me talking. I can’t make assumptions based off one conversation that I wasn’t even a part of. Maybe Moriarty is just a creepy guy. It’s not like they don’t exist. And it’s not like I can exactly claim to be entirely normal. After all, he’s the only one of us who's here by choice, so he must be at the very lease more normal than me. 

Satisfied with this conclusion, I allow myself to relax and watch the people around me go about their manufactured routines. It isn’t until later that I realize that Moriarty had called me Sherlock’s “soldier friend.” This thought is what keeps me up all night, questioning the superficial argument that I had created earlier today and leaving me with one question. 

Who is Jim Moriarty?


End file.
